The Arena of Ice and Fire
by Dreyden
Summary: Recently, the subreddit for A Song of Ice and Fire had a tournament where characters were placed in "what if" fights, and people were encouraged to write short stories for each battle. These are the stories I wrote for the tourney, many of which helped characters win their rounds. It was a fun little experiment and I encourage everyone to go read the others' submissions on r/asoiaf
1. The Greatjon vs Mance Rayder

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.  
**

**A/N: T****he following short fight flash fictions were written by me for the fan tournament over at /r/asoiaf on Reddit. I had a lot of fun during the actual tournament, and wanted to share with others. I will be posting these in the order that I wrote them. They were quickly done with little to no editing, but I think they came out well for what they are. Hope you enjoy, and please review!**

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**A Song of Ice and Fire Subreddit Tournament**

**Jon Umber vs Mance Rayder  
**

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Jon "the Greatjon" Umber stared hard at the man kneeling before him. If someone would have told him just that morning that one of the most wanted men in the North would fall into his lap, he would have called them an idealistic fool. Now, though, he could only grin at his good fortune. The man grinned back, and the Greatjon felt a spark of ire.

"Mance Rayder. King Beyond the Wall." The Greatjon harrumphed at the title. The man was such a cocky fool.

"That would be me," Rayder replied with a half bow. "I must say, you're hospitality leaves much to be desired." The turncloak rattled his chains with a look of distaste.

"On your way to see the king?" The Greatjon asked, ignoring the man's jibe. It was well known in the North that King Robert was coming to Winterfell. What better time for a wildling to attempt a strike?

"I never could refuse a good feast." The willing king smirked. "The queen will no doubt enjoy my songs." The Greatjon snorted, recalling the lute that his men had found on the man.

"She will enjoy the sight of your headless corpse more, I should think." He looked to his son. "Jon, bring this traitor to the block." Normally it would be customary to bring such a criminal to his liege lord, but the Greatjon doubted Ned would mind if he issued the North's justice on the would-be king.

Rayder stood, all traces of laughter gone from his lined face. "Do I not get a chance to defend my crimes?" Jon pulled the wildling king to his feet, but the man jerked from his grasp. The Greatjon took a step forward with a sneer.

"Your crimes are clear to the eyes of gods and men, Wildling. You broke your oath to the Night's Watch, and the punishment is death. Jon, to the block." His son towered over Rayder, but the man was not cowed.

"If you would sentence me to death, you would do it yourself."

"Have no fear, Wildling. You will die by my hand." The Greatjon patted the hilt of his sword.

"Maybe so." Rayder moved in a flash and elbowed Jon in the face. He spun, drawing the boy's sword, and held it to his neck. The Greatjon's guardsmen drew their weapons, but he waived them back.

"There is no escape, Turncloak." His voice boomed over the hall. "If you harm my son, I will see to it that your death is _slow_."

"Even so," Rayder said, his tone deathly serious. "I would prefer to die with steel in my hands." A moment of tense silence passed between them before the Greatjon roared with laughter.

"The King Beyond the Wall wants to die with steel in his hands." The Greatjon mocked. "So be it. Jon, give him the keys to those chains." Keeping a slow hand, his son passed the keys to Rayder. The wildling king made short work of the chains and kicked Smalljon away from him. The Greatjon took a step forward, drawing his own sword in a two-handed grip.

"Consider this a trial by combat," The Greatjon said and lunged with a vicious overhead swing. The kiss of steel against steel sounded as Rayder met and spun away from the attack. Greatjon grinned at the caution he saw in the wildling's eyes. He struck again, and was once more parried with a dance. The Greatjon growled at the man's tactics. He had fought many who had tried to use their speed to get around his greater strength.

They had all fallen under his power.

With a roar, the Greatjon attacked with an upwards swing, intent on slicing the turncloak from balls to belly. Rayder dodged the strike altogether and scored a glancing slash on the Greatjon's sword arm. He grunted against the pain, wishing he had worn more than just boiled leather.

"The Watch trained you well."The wildling cocked a grin before launching a flurry of swift strikes. Greatjon grunted as his great sword caught the other blade and trapped it against the ground. Before Rayder could spin away again, Greatjon reared back a meaty fist and struck at the elusive man's face. He laughed in triumph at the satisfying _crunch_ of his fist hitting home.

Rayder staggered back, his free hand clutching the bleeding ruin that was his nose. He eyed the blood on his hand and set his jaw. Greatjon could see the anger bloom in his eyes and grinned. He had him now.

He pounced at the smaller man yet again with a resounding roar that promised death. To the man's credit, Rayder showed no fear and only settled deeper into his stance. Steel cut through the air, but Rayder danced clear from the swing and kicked at the Greatjon's wrist. Greatjon roared in pain as he felt the bones in his wrist break and his sword fell from his useless hand. Somehow he had the clarity of mind to fall backwards and away from the wildling's follow up swing.

"It's over." Rayder declared, standing between the fallen Greatjon and his fallen sword. Greatjon saw his men hesitating in whether or not to interfere. The Greatjon growled, he would _not _be defeated like this! With a grunt he pulled himself to his feet. The King Beyond the Wall readied his sword, and the Greatjon let out a guttural battle cry and charged.

Rayder brought his sword to bear for a killing blow, but he was taken aback by the Greatjon's sudden burst of speed. Steel clattered as the Greatjon tackled Mance to the ground with the full force of his considerable weight. Rayder howled in pain as his ribs broke with an audible _snap_. Wasting no time, the Greatjon introduced his good fist to the traitor's face.

Over and over again.

Minutes later, the Greatjon finally stood and stared at his bloody work. What was left of the King Beyond the Wall was nothing more than a disaster of blood, brain, and bone. He grunted and turned away from the dead king.

The North's justice was done.

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**A/N: This story propelled the Greatjon to a slim victory in the first round!**


	2. Jon Snow vs Khal Drogo

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.**

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**A Song of Ice and Fire Subreddit Tournament**

**Jon Snow vs Khal Drogo  
**

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Jon Snow kept a wary eye on his opponent across the ring. He had no idea how he had ended up in Essos, let alone standing up against the most feared Khal on the entire continent. Nevertheless, he was here and standing just yards away from the large man. His eager grin did little to settle Jon's nerves.

"You die here, Snow the Andal." Drogo spoke in slow, accented Westerosi. Jon's eyes flashed toward the man's Khaleesi, who had no doubt taught Drogo the language. The woman's silver hair flashed in the sun, and her breathing quickened in anticipation. Jon focused back on his opponent, who twirled his _arakh_. "See how he shakes before me?" The dothraki around them roared with laughter.

Jon chose not to speak. _Let the foolish speak when they ought to fight_, Ser Rodrick's old lesson echoed in his mind. _It will be their undoing_. His hand opened and closed as he reached for Longclaw. The valyrian steel sang as it left his scabbard, its rippled steel blazing under the Essos sun. Drogo stopped his laughter and looked to Jon with a savage grin.

Against any other unarmored opponent while he was clad in boiled leather and chainmail, with valyrian steel against a simple _arakh,_ Jon would have been confident in his advantage. The braid that fell down Drogo's back squashed that thought in seconds. This was a man who killed _hundreds_ without ever losing. Armored or not, he was going to be the most dangerous opponent

They stepped forward simultaneously, weapons poised to strike. Longclaw cut through the air with supernatural speed, but Drogo's _arakh_ caught the blade and turned it, sending Jon stumbling forward. Jon only just avoided the dothraki's answering slash that cut only cloth rather than skin.

Jon regained his footing, surprised at the curved blade's ability to turn away a strike with such ease. _Lesson learned_, he thought while bringing Longclaw to bear. Drogo stepped forward, _arakh _twirling. Jon dug his feet into the ground and grimaced as he caught Drogo's upward slash with Longclaw. Drogo was far stronger than him, but he had the leverage.

With a grunt, Jon leaned back and let Drogo win the parry. The _arakh _sailed past his face at the sudden loss of resistance, and Jon's leathered fist struck Drogo's jaw and he spun away. The Khal staggered back, more surprised at the blow than injured. Jon hissed as he shook his throbbing hand. Drogo stroked his bloodied lip, savage excitement lighting in his dark eyes. Jon had the sinking suspicion that he made things worse.

Drogo charged at Jon, who struggled to get his feet set in time to meet the incoming attack. Longclaw managed to deflect the blow enough to save Jon's head, but the _arakh_ still slashed across his chest, sending Jon scrambling backwards. If not for his armor, Jon was certain that would have been a killing blow.

Before he could recover, Drogo launched a barrage of swift strikes at him, and Jon emptied his head of all thought. Meeting and turning away Drogo's _arakh_ before it cleaved his head in two took most of Jon's not inconsiderable skill. The swiftness of Longclaw was the only thing keeping Drogo's barrage at bay. At long last, Drogo and Jon danced apart for a moment's reprieved. Breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face, and arms trembling with the effort of repelling Drogo, Jon knew he had to end this quickly.

For his part, Drogo's chest was heaving as well. Jon liked to think he saw something akin to respect in the dothraki's eyes, but general laughter of the _khalasar _around them dissuaded that thought. Jon dug his feet into the ground, settling himself into a sturdy chance. If Drogo caught him off guard again, Jon knew it would be over. Charging would play right into the Khal's hands as well, so his only choice was to be patient and wait for his opening.

Just as his father taught him.

Jon's grip on Longclaw tightened and he glared up at the towering dothraki. Drogo licked his lips and laughed as he charged again. Jon idly thought that against an untrained opponent, Drogo's tactic would probably terrify them. But Jon had faced a wight and lived. One oversized dothraki would not frighten him to inaction.

With his feet properly under him, parrying away Drogo's strikes became much easier. Deflect a blow, shift your stance, then deflect another. Drogo's slashes were becoming more and more frenzied, but Jon forced himself to keep a cool head until…

The _arakh_ bounced off Longclaw and Jon saw an opening. The valyrian steel sang as it cut the air and kissed Drogo's skin. The Khaleesi shouted in shock, and the Khal roared in pain and swung his _arakh _with deathly force, but Jon had already made space between them. Jon could not hold back the grim grin of satisfaction at the sight of Drogo's new ugly slash across the chest.

Drogo brought a hand to the wound, and it came away covered in blood. Jon knew that that cut would have downed a lesser man, but Drogo looked _pissed_. Drogo took off toward him, and Jon once again set his feet. The _khalasar_ around them were silent, sensing the end of the match as Jon did.

Longclaw swung up, the _arakh_ thundered down. The kiss of steel against steel clanged as the only sound in the world. Jon felt his arms shake under Drogo's strength even as his feet slid back along the along the ground. Jon felt a fleeting moment of panic, knowing Drogo would win if he did not _act_.

With a desperate prayer to the old gods, Jon let his arms weaken. Drogo sensed victory and pressed harder with his savage grin firmly in place. Jon grunted and angled Longclaw, and stepped just _so_. The _arakh_ flew down the angled Longclaw, missing Jon's neck by inches. Jon saw the surprise in Drogo's face in the split second before he spun and _struck_.

There was a long, disbelieving silence that was broken only by the Khaleesi's anguished cry. Jon, chest heaving, stared at the now headless body of the feared Khal Drogo. Someone shoved past him and kneeled beside Drogo, uncaring of all the blood. The silver-haired Khaleesi slowly turned to face Jon. Blazing violet eyes met stoic brown and Jon could _feel_ the hate radiating from the last Targaryen.

She shouted something in Dothraki to the men behind him and Jon spun, Longclaw at the ready. Rather than the attack he had expected, the Dothraki were murmuring amongst themselves. The Khaleesi repeated whatever she had said in a yell, voice cracking. Jon glanced between the raging woman and the _khalasar_, but the only movement came from the Northman that served the Khaleesi.

"It's over, Khaleesi." He told the girl while eyeing Jon. Jon did not drop his guard, but let the man wearing the Old Bear's sigil pass. The man eyed Longclaw with something akin to longing before turning to the girl.

"He _killed_ Drogo." She turned her heated gaze back to Jon. "By your oath to me, Ser Jorah, I order you to kill him." Jorah looked torn, glancing between the Khaleesi, Jon, and the gathered dothraki.

"Snow beat Khal Drogo in fair combat, Khaleesi," Jorah said in a gentle tone. "By rights, I cannot kill him, nor will the _khalasar_ take it well."

"I will be your _Queen_, Ser Jorah," she hissed at him.

"Aye, your grace. But this is not an order I can follow while we are surrounded by the Dothraki." He turned to Jon even as the would-be-Queen sputtered in defiant rage. "You must go now, Jon Snow, before the _khalasar _falls into chaos." Jon did not need to be told twice, and raced through the parting crowd of dothraki, ignoring the enraged shouts of the silver haired Khaleesi.

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**A/N: It was close, but Drogo defeated Jon in the tournament.**


	3. Rhaegar Targaryen vs Tormund Giantsbane

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.**

* * *

**A Song of Ice and Fire Subreddit Tournament**

**Rhaegar Targaryen vs Tormund Giantsbane  
**

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The cold winds blew and silver hair flowed in the breeze. King Rhaegar I Targaryen kept a grim face as he rode through one of the North's typical summer snows. Lyanna had always spoke of the falling snow as a beautiful sight to behold, but Rhaegar could not see the appeal as white fell onto dull grey. No, the North was not his place, but duty had brought him here.

When his Warden of the North, and brother by law, Eddard Stark had sent a raven to King's Landing with a request for aid, Rhaegar knew he could not refuse. Relations with the North had been fragile ever since that day when he had ended the rebellion with one spin and slash from his long sword, spilling the would-be-Usurper's blood down the mighty Trident. For the proud Eddard Stark to call for aid from the South, the situation had to be dire indeed.

Thousands of wildlings, following their "King Beyond the Wall," had done the impossible and broke through the Wall. The tattered remains of the Night's Watch had sought aid at Winterfell, and Ned Stark wasted no time in calling his banners to defend the realm. If nothing else, Rhaegar respected the man for his sense of duty.

Castle Black loomed in the distance, and Rhaegar felt the familiar sense of foreboding that always preceded a battle. He had had his fill for rebels in his short life Beside him, Ned heaved a sigh.

"I half expected you to ignore my summons." Rhaegar spared a glance to the Northman, but the Stark kept his eyes forward. It was the first thing he had said since Rhaegar met his host halfway to the Wall.

"I would not leave any of my subjects at the mercy of a rebel." A tense silence passed between them. "Also, Lyanna would never forgive me if I did not rush to help her last living brother." A grimace appeared on Ned's face. The missive he had sent south included the saddening news that Benjen Stark had been among those who perished at the Battle of the Wall.

"No, I suppose she wouldn't." Rhaegar resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. He honestly wished the relationship with his wife's favored brother was warmer, but there was the inescapable gap formed by Rhaegar's actions at the Trident.

At the very least, they respected each other, he supposed. His actions as Prince Regent in sparing the remaining leaders of the rebellion had likely earned that respect. It was a good thing, as the peace between Houses Stark, Arryn, Tully, and Targaryen rested on nothing more than his marriage to Lyanna. The Martells were _still_ angry about that, despite assurances that Aegon was ahead of Jon in the line of succession. Rhaegar sighed and shook his head. Keeping his kingdoms together was going to drive him as mad as his father.

Silence fell between them once again as they continued to approach the castle. After a time, three mounted men appeared in the distance. Rhaegar and Eddard pulled up and waited for the men to reach them. It looked as if they had received the raven after all. Rhaegar studied the three as they approached.

One was tall and lean, with a bald head, straight nose, clear face, and no ears. The bronze scales he was wearing shined despite the lack of sunlight. Another was a smaller man wearing armor made of _bone_. Rhaegar grimaced at the type of man that would take pleasure in armoring himself in death.

Violet eyes shifted and met brown. The man was, in a word, broad. A wide face, lined with age, held a jovial expression behind a great white beard. A thick build showed that the strength the man possessed likely matched the reputation that preceded him. He was armored in leather and mail, with a great sword strapped at his side.

"Tormund Giantsbane," Eddard greeted the man with an icy tone. "It is time you answered for your crimes against the realm."

"Ned Stark," the big man returned with a grin. "The Lord of Winterfell finally comes to meet me in face! Some had started to name you a coward." The man shifted to face Rhaegar, ignoring Eddard's freezing glare. "And you've brought a southern flower with you! Perhaps a gift for my men? Har!" Rhaegar ignored the jab and held himself to his full height.

"I am Rhaegar Targaryen, first of my name. I am the King of the Seven-"

"King of someplace far away in the south." The bald man in bronze interrupted with a growl.

"Now, Styr, I was hoping to finally meet someone with a name longer than mine!" The large man laughed from his belly before leveling his gaze at the two. "I read your letter, Southron King. Here I am, what is this proposal you are so desperate for me to hear?" Rhaegar held back a grimace at being treated so lightly.

"The armies of the North have pushed you back to a stalemate throughout the North." Tormund nodded at Rhaegar's assessment. "I have seen more than enough war in my lifetime, but make no mistake _Wildling _King." Rhaegar was happy to see the man's smile falter when they locked gazes. "I can bring the full fury of all Seven Kingdoms down upon you."

"Let them come!" The bone-wearer said, bones rattling. "Any of the free folk is worth ten southerners!"

"Regardless," Rhaegar spoke in a clipped voice. "Such bloodshed can be avoided. You and I will fight, Tormund Thunderfist, and peace shall be decided by the victor." The King Beyond the Wall stroked his beard.

"The terms of victory?" Rhaegar grinned. Tormund may have been a wildling, but he was not a fool.

"If you should kill me, the lands of the Gifts shall be granted to your people under your rule as Lord of Castle Black." Tormund's eyes lit at the prospect. "However, should you fall, your people will relinquish your hold and retreat beyond the wall. Lest the entirety of my might comes to fall on your remaining army."

"I accept," Tormund said, handling his sword and dismounting his horse. "I've killed giants, boy, do not expect an easy kill from me." Rhaegar slid from his horse as well, donning his dragon-adorned helm. Eddard and the two wildlings backed away from them to give them space.

Rhaegar studied his opponent as he unsheathed his own sword. If you put an antlered helm on him, he could have been a twin to Robert Baratheon. A flashing memory of the Trident claimed his mind for a moment before he shook it away. Tormund would have more strength than he did, but Rhaegar was no stranger to that disadvantage.

As expected, Giantsbane was the first to charge. The quickness of Tormund's rush caught Rhaegar off guard, and he barely managed to parry away the wildling's strike. The follow up punch hit Rhaegar directly in the chest, staggering him back. Violet eyes widened at the echo of pain he felt. Blackened plate mail and boiled leather separated him from the direct blow, and it _still_ caused him pain. What was this man made of?

Thoughts left him as Tormund was on him once again. This time, he met the wildling's blow cleanly, and held his feet firm. Their eyes locked for a split second before Rhaegar danced away. Tormund charged him again, and once again steel met steel with an echoing _cling_. Rhaegar grimace as his arms staggered under the weight from the blow, but he managed to skip away.

"Do all southerners like dance as prettily as you do? Har!" The big man taunted with a wide grin. Rhaegar set his jaw. He had a decent grasp on his opponent's style now, and placed himself in the same firm stance he had before. Thunderfist took the invitation and came upon Rhaegar with a rumbling roar. The Silver King shifted his stance as Tormund struck, letting the man's swing catch his sword and guided it wide. In the split second before Giantsbane could recover, a plated fist backhanded him across the face.

Both men cried in pain and slipped away from each other. Rhaegar shook his hand, marveling at the damage striking Tormund directly had done, while the wildling King clutched at his now bleeding, misshapen nose.

"What is your skull made of?" Rhaegar was never one to speak during battle, but the situation was beyond odd. The two wildlings accompanying Tormund chuckled along with their king.

"We're made of harder stuff in the North." With that, the battle was back on. The wildling relied almost entirely on his massive strength, but Rhaegar's experience and training allowed him to ward off the powerful strikes. Still, his arms were growing tired, and Tormund looked to only be gaining energy as the fight wore on.

He had to end this.

He charged at the Wildling King for the first time, catching the bigger man offguard, but Tormund held his ground under the blow. Without taking a chance to recover, Rhaegar struck again. And again, and again. Using his faster speed and agility, Rhaegar rained a flurry of swiped and slashes that Tormund was hard pressed to keep up with. He knew it was only a matter of time…

Tormund grunted as one of Rhaegar's slashes slipped along the great sword, and blood poured from a fresh gash on the wildling's shoulder. Rhaegar did not allow himself to stop and kept up with his flurry, grinning when Tormund started to slow. With a burst of adrenaline, Rhaegar hammered against Tormund's great sword, and it flew wide. Steel kissed mail, leather, and flesh as Rhaegar took advantage of his opening and struck home. The wildling's cried in anger or dismay as they watched their king fall to his knees, gutted.

"Har…" The Wildling King wheezed as he looked at the sword in his belly. The man tipped lifelessly to his side, and Rhaegar fell to one knee, exhausted. A moment of tense silence passed before the two other wildlings dismounted their horses and drew their weapons. In a flash, Eddard was in front him wielding the storied Ice.

"You will go, retrieve your people, and leave my kingdom." Rhaegar growled and forced himself to his feet. He locked eyes with the grim, earless man. "You will go, or I will rain down upon you with a hundred thousand men." Something approaching fear passed through the man's grey eyes and he gave a stiff nod. The bone-wearer eyed Ice with a wary eye before falling back with his ally.

"You ought to burn him," the bronze scaled one said as he mounted his horse. The two spoke no more and took their leave.

"Not all of them will listen. Some will stay." Eddard said after a long pause. Rhaegar eyed the fallen form of Tormund Giantsbane with the melancholy feeling of frustration filling him.

"I know."

"Then why did you fight him?"

"To give some of them a chance to escape with their lives." Violet eyes met grey as brothers by law shared a grim look of understanding. "I have seen enough bloodshed for my lifetime." And yet, he feared, he knew he would see much, much more.

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**A/N: A more humorous take on this scenario, with Tormund taking Robert's place on the Trident, won this round and Tormund moved on.**


	4. Eddard Stark vs Robert Baratheon

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.**

**A/N: This is my favorite one from the tournament, and was a favorite for many over on the subreddit as well.  
**

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**A Song of Ice and Fire Subreddit Tournament**

**Eddard Stark vs Robert Baratheon  
**

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"Tell me where the boy is, Ned!" Eddard Stark felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the chilled northern winds.

"What boy, Your Grace?" He felt is heart pounding his chest beneath his boiled leather. There was no way that Robert could know. There was nobody left who would tell…

"Don't give me that shit!" The king's lean, bearded face was red with rage. "*_His* _son." An uneasy silence passed through the courtyard. *_Promise me, Ned.*_

"I have no idea who you speak of, Robert." Robert's face darkened as the two remaining Kingsguard handled their sword hilts with unease. Ned had known from the moment the three were spotted riding up the Kingsroad at full speed that it was going to be a long day. *_How could he have known?*_

"I swore I would see every last Targaryen dead!" Robert spat. "For what he did to your sister, I swore it. How can you live with the proof of what he did?" Ned's eyes closed in a brief moment of undeniable weariness.

"He is Lyanna's son." Ned declared. The weight of guilt did not lift from his chest.

"A son *_he*_ forced into her belly!" Ned shook his head. Tears had fallen from desperate, grey eyes_.* I loved him, Ned.*_

"He will grow up a bastard of the North. He won't know his true heritage." A baby began to cry, and Ned spared a glance. Catelyn was clutching the weeping Robb with a mixture of shock, relief, and betrayal on her face. Guilt panged his heart once again. *_Promise me, Ned._*

"And give those fools at King's Landing an heir to cling to? No, Ned. He has to die." The image of the bloody remnants of Rhaegar's other children popped into Ned's head, turning his stomach.

"I can't let that happen, Robert," Ned said, voice full of sadness. Robert bared gritted teeth and growled.

"So this is how it ends? Years of friendship gone for a Targaryen bastard?" Robert barked a bitter laugh. He grasped for his great war hammer, armor and crown gleaming in the sun.

Ned lowered his head for a short moment. The great injustice of the world hit him full force, then. The gods were cruel to force him into these situations. *_Promise me, Ned._* Lyanna's voice whispered in his ear and his head snapped up. He had given his word that he would protect Lyanna's son, no matter the cost. And so he would.

"Jory." His voice was flat as he held out a hand. The young man raced to bring him Ice. The valyrian still blade sang as he drew it. Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer stepped up to Robert's side, but the king waved them off.

"It will be me alone," Robert declared and hefted his hammer into a ready position. Ned flashed back to when they were boys fighting under the watchful eye of Jon Arryn. How had it come to this?

Robert advanced on him with great speed, the hammer dropping to deliver a massive blow, but Ned edged away. The newly crowned king recovered in an instant and was back at him, but Ned guided the hammer down the length of Ice and stepped away again.

Whenever Robert fought, it was quick and brutal. Most did not know how to deal with the unusual weapon. But Ned had grown up with Robert, and knew the way he fought better than he did. The hammer did not frighten him. Ned ducked another swing, and returned with a swipe of Ice. Metal screeched against metal as Ice left its mark on Robert's armor. Robert growled and readied the hammer again, spike side out. Ned readied himself to move. The frenzy was coming,

Robert stepped, twirling his body to build up momentum in his swing. Ned jumped back to avoid the swing, but Robert had spun and brought the hammer down from overhead. Ned jerked Ice to deflect the blow, but the spike grazed his left arm. Leather and mail gave way as blood poured from the wound. Ned could not spare a moment to cry in pain as the hammer was already coming at him again. Ned ducked the blow and rolled away, biting back a shout as he put weight on his injured arm.

"Fight me! You have the balls to betray your sister's memory, but you don't fight back!" Ned felt the cold chill of anger spread from his belly at his old friend's words.

"She was never yours," he said in a deathly even tone. Robert's eyes narrowed. "She loved Rhaegar." Fury bloomed in Robert's eyes and he was on the move again. The hammer was a blur of motion as he charged, but Ned danced around the familiar tactics. Robert was not a patient fighter at the best of times. When he was angry, he downright sloppy.

When Robert overextended a blow, Ned struck at his opening. Ice sang as it cut the air and kissed the soft mail beneath Robert's right arm. Robert grunted in pain as his hammer fell from his limp right hand. Ned backed off, Ice grasped loosely.

"Go back to King's Landing, Robert." Ned begged. "Be king, rule, and forget about Jon. You have nothing to fear from the North." _Don't make me kill you._

"Like hell!" Robert roared and hoisted the hammer in his left arm. Ned felt a brief moment of surprise before Robert was on him again. Instinct caused him to meet the hammer with Ice. The blow was much weaker than normal, and Ice batted the hammer wide.

Ned moved without thinking, and Ice kissed plate, mail, leather, and skin. Time froze for a tragic second and the best of friends locked eyes. Gone was the look of fury in Robert's eyes. In its place was a look of muted surprise. Robert's mouth shaped an "o," but no sound came from him.

And then he fell.

The courtyard had been silent as the duo fought, but it was nothing compared to the deafening stillness that surrounded him now. Tears spilled as Ned stared at his fallen friend. _*Promise me, Ned.* _The world was not just.

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**A/N: In spite of people's belief that Robert would win in the fight, my story urged Ned onto victory.**


	5. Areo Hotah vs Khal Drogo

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.**

* * *

**A Song of Ice and Fire Subreddit Tournament  
**

**Areo Hotah vs Khal Drogo  
**

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"Your walls will crumble before me," the olive skinned man grumbled in Dothraki. It had been many long years since Hotah had heard the horse lords' language, but the bearded priests' lessons were not soon forgotten.

He stepped forward. "You will come no further." A silver haired woman, with a child on her hip, translated for him. Amusement glowed in the Khal's dark eyes, and his men barked with laughter. Their quick dismissal of his claim did not bother Hotah. He had just stated a fact. The spires of Sunspear loomed behind him, and he had thousands of spears at his back. The Dothraki would not get past them.

The Khal stepped forward, his _arakh_ twirling with an instinctual ease. "You die first." Hotah caressed the ashen shaft of his poleaxe, finding confidence from the soft and worn wood. The horse lord's braid reached well past his waist, which meant the man had not been defeated a long, long time. The broad man swung his curved blade in a taunting manner, beckoning Hotah forth. He hoisted his wife into the familiar ready position, her iron head gleaming in the Dornish sun. _Serve. Protect. Obey._ He charged, the image of his prince and little princess firm in his mind.

For once, Areo Hotah did not know the outcome of a fight before it began.

His great swing flew wide of the bronze man, and Areo lumbered backwards before the answering _arakh _could find purchase. Even if it lacked the cutting power to pierce his armor, Hotah preferred to avoid the weapon's sting. The _arakh_ had a deceptive quickness to it, and the Khal's strength was not to be taken lightly.

His axe arced again, and the Khal ducked the blow with a feral grin. The man did not expect the butt end of the shaft to come flying after the blade had missed, as it struck the Khal clean on the chin. The horse lord staggered back, surprise showing on his face more than pain, and Hotah attacked again.

He brought the axe from overhead, intent on cleaving the invader's skull in two, but the _arakh_ flashed and caught his wife just below her head. The Khal turned the attack into the sand, turned into the momentum, and elbowed Hotah in the side of the head. Hotah 's head snapped back and his helm went flying, but the blow had not done any real damage.

He put some distance between them before the Dothraki could follow up with another attack. The man had proved to possess an agility that belied his size. Hotah hefted his wife into a ready position once more. This time, he would let the horse lord come to him.

The Khal did not disappoint. After raising his arms as if to ask "is this all you have to offer," the Khal charged with his men roaring with approval. Hotah batted away the first swing with his weapon's shaft, suppressing a wince as the steel bit into the wood, and brought the iron head down. The man danced around the attack and brought his _arakh_ to bear, bouncing it off Hotah's armor. The Khal's face twisted into a sneer as the blow left nothing more than a scratch in the plated steel. Hotah knew that, next time, the Khal would aim for his head.

He would not give him the opportunity.

Hotah planted his back foot into the sand and lunged his shoulder into the dothraki. The maneuver earned a surprised grunt and a staggered opponent. He brought his axe up from below, gripping it by the middle of the shaft, and caught the Khal's hurried block. With practiced ease, he spun the poleaxe and caught the man in the chin with his wife's base once again.

When the horse lord caught his wits a moment later, he looked angry. *_Good_,* Hotah thought as he reclaimed his stance, *_let the foolish strike with anger and rage_.* The bearded priests' lessons still rang fresh in his mind. *_You will strike them down with calm and precision.*_

The horse lord was on him in a flurry of wild steel. Despite his calm, Hotah struggled to meet the Khal's frenzied attacks with the staff of his weapon. He soon found he was giving ground to the rampaging man, and Hotah felt a brief fluttering of panic at the overwhelming assault.

A thundering _crack_ sounded and Hotah felt the world stop as his trusted axe snapped in half under the constant abuse. Worse, the iron head had been attached to the half _not_ in his hands and fell to the sands below. Hotah snapped his eyes back to the horse lord as he roared in triumph, arakh cutting the air towards his head. Hotah acted on instinct alone.

A sharp clang and crunch sounded as Hotah grunted in pain. He had raised his left arm to catch the slashing weapon, and had managed to save his head, but the Khal's mighty swing had bit through the plate and lodged deep in his arm. The Khal scowled and tried to yank the weapon free.

Hotah forced himself to ignore the agonizing pain lancing from his arm, and pressed the advantage of the moment. He forced his stabbed arm wide even as he leaned down to his right. His action sent the undefeated horse lord off balance, and Hotah's hand found the familiar, worn wood of his axe. If the gods were good, it would be the right half.

He swung.

His wife's deathly kiss cleaved into the Khal's skull from jaw to brow, and Hotah felt the familiar sense of grim satisfaction as his enemy fell before him, dead. The Norvosi fell to his knees, most of his strength gone, and cradled his bleeding arm close to his chest. Hotah knew that he would most likely lose the limb, but he found he did not care. He had done his duty, and killed his prince's enemies.

Thousands of battle cries sang through the desert as the leaderless khalasar charged. The last sight Areo Hotah saw before he fell unconscious was the glittering bronze of the Dornish Sons sprinting to meet the invaders.

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**A/N: People really didn't want Drogo to lose, but this story sealed Areo's victory.**


	6. Eddard Stark vs Duncan the Tall

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.**

* * *

**A Song of Ice and Fire Subreddit Tournament  
**

**Eddard Stark vs Duncan the Tall  
**

* * *

Dunk jerked to awareness after an intense dream. He turned his head to and fro in panic, before calming at the sight of Winterfell's wierwood. He ran a hand through his mane of brown hair with a sigh. *_Just a dream_,* he thought. *_These northerners hold their drink well*._ Dunk stood and stretched, taking comfort in the whispering wind of the wood. He had been in the service of Winterfell for months now, and found he was quite welcome by the numerous Stark widows. The She-Wolves of Winterfell were an intense and intimidating group, but he had won them over by fighting off numerous ironborn.

"Egg?" He called, while trying to remember how he had ended up passed out in the godswood. His squire was never far out of earshot, and was not one to drink. The secret Targaryen would probably have all the answers. Including how Dunk had ended up in nothing but trousers and a Targaryen banner worn as a shirt, with his sword carelessly lying on the ground. He wondered what had happened to his armor, and hoped he did not lose it to Lord Umber in one of the man's drinking games.

Again.

"Egg?" He called again, but again there was no answer. Dunk grew concerned. He stepped through the woods, calling out his squire's name, but never heard a reply. The tall knight began to panic. He had never been alone at Winterfell for longer than a few minutes. The Ladies Stark, Egg, the petty lords, or Nan were always around. How he had longed for a moment's peace, but the quiet only filled him with unease.

"Who are you, and how did get here?" Dunk spun around at the sudden voice. Underneath the wierwood stood a man with a stern, untrusting visage. He was tall, not quite so tall as Dunk, but still above the average. His dark brown hair fell to his neck, and he maintained a neat beard. What stood out to Dunk, though, was what he wore. The man bore the proud Stark direwolf on his rich garments. Those were clothes a lord would wear, but Dunk knew of no Stark that was a man grown.

"I could ask you the same." Dunk said, hand inching toward his sword. The ironborn had tried to infiltrate the castle before, but none had been so foolish as to pretend to be Starks themselves. Still, he would not put it past the stubborn men of the Iron Islands.

The man's left eyebrow twitched. "I am Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and I ask you again. Who are you?" The man put his weight on a greatsword sheathed in an ornate scabbard. It was Ice, Dunk realized with widened eyes. The oldest Lady Stark had shown it to him when he first came into her service. It was the symbol of the North's power. How had this man gotten his hands on it? He shook his head, figuring that it did not matter. There was no Eddard Stark, of that he was sure.

He raised his sword.

The false lord dropped a whetstone from his hand and drew out Ice. The valyrian steel sang in the air. Egg had told him about the Targaryen ancestral sword, Blackfyre. How the blade was supposed to have rippled with light and sail through the air with unmatched speed. The Blackfyres had stolen the sword to Essos with their defeat, but Dunk knew that the northern greatsword must rival the royal blade in beauty.

Eddard narrowed his eyes as he gave Dunk a once over. "The rebellion is long over," he spoke in a grim tone. Dunk gave the fake Stark a queer look. Of course the rebellion was over. Everyone knew that. "The Targaryens are all dead or gone. Robert is king now, and if you have come looking for revenge or glory, you will not find it." At those words, Dunk knew he was missing something. It had been the Blackfyres that had been driven out after the Redgrass Field, and Aerys I had been king for years.

Yet the man sounded so *_sure*_. What did it mean? He felt the beginning of a headache throb at his temple and pushed the unwelcome thoughts away. *_Dunk the Lunk, thick as a castle wall*._ He did not need to know why the man said these things. He only needed to know that it was his duty to protect the She-Wolves of Winterfell.

He took a step, and so did his opponent. Both of them were unarmored, and Dunk had learned the uneven terrain of the godswood well. As his sword swung down to meet the flying Ice, Dunk knew he would have the advantage. His size, if nothing else, would be able to overwhelm the false lord.

When Eddard turned away his blow without giving ground, Dunk had to fight back the shock or else become shorter by a head from the man's follow up strike. Dunk leaned back and barely dodged the wicked edge of the valyrian steel. He backpedaled to regain his balance, and took up a defensive stance. He eyed his opponent with a fresh sense of danger.

Most of the people Dunk fought quaked in the wake of his size and strength, but this man had apparently had experience fighting larger opponents. Dunk felt sweat bloom on his brow as he realized that this was not going to be an easy victory. His opponent held his ground, content to let Dunk come on the offensive.

Dunk ran forward, red leaves crunching beneath his heavy steps. He brought his sword up with all his might, intent on getting past Eddard's guard to get the man off balance. Valyrian steel or not, the false Stark could not bring his sword with enough force to parry the blow, and opted to jump out of the blade's path.

Dunk turned his swing into a spin without losing momentum, and aimed for the pretender's head with a battle cry. The man was quicker than Dunk had predicted and caught the blow with Ice. Eddard grunted in the effort of blocking Dunk's strength, and the tall man pushed more of his weight into the blade. The man slid along the dirt, but still managed to hold firm.

Eddard angled his blade, and Dunk could not stop his momentum in time and stumbled forward. Steel clipped his side as he passed, and Dunk hissed in pain. He scrambled away from the smaller man, holding his bleeding side with his off hand. The wound was not deep, but it had a lingering, stinging pain to it as blood poured from it. Dunk glared at his assailant, but the pretender stood in his defensive stance, out of breath, but calm as ever.

He was the most patient man Dunk had ever fought. With that valyrian steel blade, and the apparent ease he had blocking Dunk's immense blows, Dunk had a feeling he would not be able to win a dance with swords. He grimaced, and prepared to turn this fight from sword to fist. He charged with as much speed as he could muster.

The man's eyes widened for a brief second before he lowered his stance, prepared to take a blow. Dunk roared and brought his sword down from overhead, and, as Dunk predicted, the false lord caught and turned the strike away, which put him off balance. As Dunk's sword dug into the dirt with Ice on top of it, Dunk reared back his fist and let it fly. Eddard's eyes widened, then snapped shut

_*Crack*_. Dunk grimaced at sound and feel of both their bones crunching from the blow. Eddard's head snapped back, and he was thrown to the ground. Dunk tried to flex his right hand, but yelped in pain. He had definitely broken something

"That was not," his opponent said, staggering to his feet. Dunk's eyes widened. That blow should have been strong enough to knock him out. "The hardest," Eddard spat blood, a deep purple bruise blooming on half his face. "I've ever been hit," he finished, hoisting up Ice. Dunk felt a flitter of panic. How had he managed to keep hold of the greatsword?

The man went on the offensive, and Dunk grabbed his sword in a clumsy, left handed grip. He made to parry the man's attack, but Eddard batted away the sword from Dunk's weaker grip. In that moment, before steel met skin and Ice sliced him from shoulder to hip, Dunk saw nothing but regret and sadness in his opponent's eyes. Then the pain hit him.

"Argh!" Dunk cried out at the top of his lungs, instinctive hands reaching to cover his wounds. A moment later, Dunk blinked in confusion and looked down. His body was not scratched, let alone split in half. "What in the seven hells just happened?" He asked the night air. He blinked again. When had it gotten to be dark?

"What's going on?" Egg's sleepy voice called from the darkness. *_A dream_,* Dunk reasoned with a furrowed brow. *_It had to have been a dream_.*

"Nothing, go back to sleep." Egg did not reply, and soon the soft sound of the boy's snores filled the godswood. Dunk's idle hands traced what would have been a fatal wound, and he shivered. He had heard the northerners whisper about "green dreams," and wondered if that had been what happened.

He sighed and lied back down. Images of his opponent drifted through his mind as he gazed above at the wierwood that served as his pillow. Perhaps it had been a lesson of patience? Or of self confidence? Dunk frowned and rolled to his side. Or perhaps he had had too much mead and ale. That was probably it.

* * *

**A/N: Beating the odds once more, Ned won the round.**


	7. Eddard Stark vs Garlan Tyrell

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.**

* * *

**A Song of Ice and Fire Subreddit Tournament**

**Garlan Tyrell vs Eddard Stark  
**

* * *

"Ser Garlan, your reputation precedes you." Garlan Tyrell yanked his sword from his latest kill, offering a silent prayer to the Stranger. He turned to the voice, shield poised to block any attack. A group of five northmen in bloodied armor stood just ten feet away. The shining valyrian steel the leader held gave away his identity.

"Yours as well, Lord Stark." Garlan recognized the sigils for Houses Umber, Glover, Cassel, and Tully flanking the northern Lord. The presence of his own men at his back kept Garlan from worrying at the odds.

"This can be over right now, Ser. Lay down your sword and I will accept your surrender." Garlan glanced about the battlefield with a pained grimace. The Stark and Tully hosts had taken them by complete surprise, and every time it looked like Garlan's bannermen would turn the tide, the northerners' strategy would shift and push the Tyrells back even further. Stark's ability as a commander could not be questioned.

"I would offer you the same, my lord." Garlan knew it was a hollow offer, but it did him well to observe the chivalrous exchange. He readied his sword, and heard his men do the same.

Stark's stormy grey eyes darkened beneath his helm. "I see." Garlan believed he heard sincere regret in the man's voice, but it could not be helped. He was charged with holding this land for King Renly, and the only way left to ensure victory was to capture the opposing commander.

The five men on each side took a hesitant step, and then charged each other in a clash of steel and iron. Garlan met Lord Eddard in the center of their makeshift clearing, and caught the man's greatsword on his oaken shield. The valyrian steel dug deep into the flower and sent splinters flying. Garlan stumbled against the force of the blow, but did not lose his footing. He lashed out with his own sword, but Lord Stark stepped away, cracking Ice away from the wood.

Garlan jumped back at the man, his sword flashing with swift slashes. Stark's greatsword became his shield as he yielded ground to Garlan as he pressed his attack. Garlan felt the familiar burst of adrenaline the more Stark fell back, and his strikes became harder and stronger. The northern lord grunted against the strong blow, but Garlan felt himself stumbling forward.

He cursed when he realized Eddard had led him into a trap and he overextended himself. He brought his shield to guard against the northman's answering attack, and his entire arm buckled from the blow. Garlan breathed a quick sigh of relief, and pushed away from Stark with a rough shove, sending both men stumbling backward. Garlan gulped his breaths, readying for another attack.

The crunch of dirt beneath an armored boot was his only warning, but that was all Garlan needed. He spun, batting away the attacking Tully man's sword with his own, and bashing the man in his helmed face with his shield. The Tully stumbled back, catching his balance with Stark's help.

"Don't underestimate him, Edmure." Eddard's voice barked the warning and he shoved the Tully into position. Garlan twirled his sword in a beckoning motion and planted his feet in a sure stance. It would be foolish to attack two opponents at once.

Tully attacked first with a roar. Garlan parried the man's flashing blade, and tripped him to the dirt. He took no time to enjoy the sight of the flailing Tully, and danced out of the way of a strike from Ice. Steel screeched as Garlan managed to scrape his blade along Eddard's armor before the man recovered his stance.

Tully was back up and attacking from behind, but Garlan ducked the swipe and elbowed him in the gut, drawing a pained gasp from the. The whistling of air being cut by Ice made Garlan react on instinct as he curled and rolled away. It was no speedy task when wearing plate, but he managed to avoid the worst of the blow.

He barely felt the trickle of blood running down his back beneath sliced armor.

When he regained his feet, both Tully and Stark were advancing on him again. Garlan knew he had to take care of one of them now or risk tiring under the combined onslaught. Once again it was Tully that attacked first, and Garlan caught the blow on his shield,. He yanked to the left, _hard_, and forced Tully to tackle into Lord Stark. Tully fell to the ground and Stark stumbled backward. Garlan wasted no time and pushed his sword through the gap in Tully's armor.

Garlan grimaced at the spurting blood, but forced himself to ignore the gurgling of the dying man. When he looked up, he found Stark gazing at the fallen Tully with a deep sadness in his eyes. It passed in a moment, and those grey eyes froze with the cold fury of the north. Garlan readied himself for the inevitable onslaught that gaze promised.

They stepped toward each other and steel flashed in a blur of motion. Garlan was taken aback by the sudden increase in his opponent's speed, but was quick to correct his movements. The battle around them faded away as they danced and valyrian steel kissed sword and shield. Garlan had the fleeting feeling that he would have enjoyed such a fight, under better circumstances.

In a familiar motion, Garlan brought up his oaken shield to deflect Eddard's blow, but the battered would finally gave out and shattered. Ice bit into his left arm even as Garlan kicked Eddard away. He flung the ruined shield off his injured limb with a wince. The cut pained him, but his hand would still be useable. He looked up to find that Stark had already recovered and held Ice at the ready. The sight of his own blood adorning the blade sent a chill down Garlan's spine.

Eddard approached him, and Garlan's arm stung as he held his sword in a two handed grip, compensating for the lack of shield. Eddard brought Ice down to bear with killer intent, and Garlan did all he could to remain just outside the blade's considerable reach. With two hands, it was possible to parry the greatsword, and Garlan knew his opponent was tiring.

On the northern lord's next attack, Garlan found his opening and parried the valyrian steel into the cold earth. He rushed inside Eddard's guard and kicked the man in the side of the knee with all. The sturdy northerner howled in pain and dropped to his knees, but still brought Ice up in an awkward slash.

It caught Garlan unaware and left a new sheen of red along his chest. Garlan hissed in pain, but managed to push the offending arm away. Before Eddard could even try to regain his footing, Garlan had ripped off the man's helm and placed his sword at the northerner's neck.

"Yield," he said through gasping breath. A long moment passed and Eddard chuckled without humor.

"I can't do that." His voice was so soft Garlan almost missed it among the din of the battle. Lord Stark was staring at something across the battlefield, and Garlan followed his gaze. Dozens of yards away, a man bearing Stark colors was slashing his way through Tyrell men in a desperate manner. What caught Garlan's attention, though, was the grey direwolf at the man's side.

"I see," Garlan said with a grim sigh. That had to be Robb Stark, the man who beat both Jaime and Tywin Lannister in the field in his attempt to free his father. "I do regret this, Lord Stark."

"I know." Eddard's tone was nothing but resolved. In a flash of motion, Eddard tried to bring Ice back up to strike Garlan down, but Garlan knew better than to hesitate. The cut was clean and swift. Ice fell from limp fingers, and Lord Eddard Stark fell forward, his lifeblood pooling beneath him.

An anguished cry sounded over the battlefield, and Garlan did not have to look to know its source. "Capture Robb Stark!" He barked the order to any man close enough to hear. "Alive!" He sheathed his own sword and picked up Ice. The light weight surprised Garlan, but he took no time to admire the blade.

Eddard Stark was known to have returned a precious blade to its proper place, and he would honor the man's memory by doing the same.

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**A/N: I took the challenge of getting behind a character without a POV, and Garlan took the round by a single point.**


	8. Garlan Tyrell vs Brynden Tully

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.**

* * *

**A Song of Ice and Fire Subreddit Tournament Semifinal**

**Garlan Tyrell vs Brynden Tully  
**

* * *

Ser Garlan Tyrell gazed at the looming castle as his horse galloped along the marshy ground. High above the sandstone walls, the proud banners of Houses Stark and Tully waved in the wind. Riverrun was perhaps the last keep in all of the Seven Kingdoms to still fly the Stark's direwolf. Garlan sighed, feeling the grim determination to see that that banner would fall today.

He had been prepared to lead a force of Tyrell bannermen to Brightwater Keep to claim his newly awarded seat, but his father had other plans in mind. Now it was the last remnant of the North's rebellion that he laid siege to; all the while cleaning up the mess the Freys had managed to make of things in the months since the Red Wedding.

His lip curled in disgust at the thought of the event. It pained him to be allied with the likes of the Freys and Boltons, but it was Mace Tyrell that decided House Tyrell's loyalty. He spared a brief thought to wonder what Willas would make of this situation, but cast that thought aside. It would be many years until Willas would be the lord Garlan answered to.

"The coward finally shows his face." Garlan resisted the urge to growl his annoyance. Barely. "He finally takes us seriously."

"The only reason it has taken so long, Ryman, is due to nothing but your own idiocy," Garlan told the Frey behind him, keeping his tone neutral. Ryman Frey had spent every day for weeks threatening to hang Edmure Tully. The fool did not realize that in order to threaten such an action, you had to be willing to *_do*_ it.

"What did you say to me?" Ryman Frey cried, indignant. Garlan did not bother to turn to the man, instead keeping his eyes locked on the man standing on Riverrun's lowered drawbridge.

"You heard me," he said. "Stay here or else go back to your "Queen of Whores." You'll only make things worse." Garlan urged his horse to a faster trot and heard the Frey pull up behind him. For his part, the man on the bridge did not react to Garlan's sudden burst of speed. The fact that Garlan could _feel_ the archers' eyes on him from the ramparts probably had something to do with it.

"Ser Garlan Tyrell," the grey-haired man greeted in a smoky voice. He crossed his arms over his armored chest, a slight frown on his face. "I had expected to meet the Kingslayer at my gate."

Garlan dismounted his horse, landing with the soft *_clink*_ of metal upon wood. "I thought so as well," he replied in a genial tone. He took the chance to study the aging man before him. Brynden Tully was armored in dark, gleaming plate with a bastard sward sheathed behind his shoulders. His overcoat bore the sigil of the black fish over red and blue waves that he adopted for himself, and he held a helm at his side. The man was ready for a fight.

"Come to threaten me with my nephew's execution?" Garlan grimaced.

"I don't think it will come to that."

"Oh? The *_honorable*_ Ser Frey has seen fit to remind me that it has already come to that every day for the last three weeks." The Blackfish spun on his heel and strode toward the gate. "I came only to see which dog the Lannisters would send. Go back to your camp, Ser."

"You came because you had no choice," Garlan countered, voice serious. The Blackfish knew the game of war well, but Garlan was no stranger to it either. The Tully stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around.

"Oh?" There was humor in his voice. "These walls can hold out for years, Ser, and winter is coming. Your siege will not take Riverrun."

"You're right, my lord." Garlan acknowledged with a slight bow of his head. "Winter _is_ coming. Ser Gregor knew this as well." The Blackfish's lined face grew taut. "I have to wonder how long your stores shall last."

"We brought in more than enough before that man burned the Riverlands."

"Is that so?" Garlan asked as the Blackfish's blue eyes grew stormy. "So is this what it will come down to, Ser Brynden? A long drawn out battle of wills, where each of us tries to outlive the other through the long winter ahead? We both know how that will end." Garlan's thumb caressed the pommel of his sword. The Blackfish eyed the motion with a resigned gaze.

"We can end this here and now, and save the lives of everyone in Riverrun." Garlan continued. "Including your queen."

"It is to be single combat then." Blackfish pulled on his helmet and waved a signal to the archer's above. Were he facing a man of less repute, Garlan may have been nervous at the gesture.

"So it will be." Garlan donned his own helmet and readied his shield. The heavy plate locked into place, and both Garlan and Brynden drew their swords. Garlan's heart fluttered at the prospect of fighting one of the heroes of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but it was tempered by the circumstances surrounding it.

It was a shame they could not be allies.

The Blackfish moved with a speed that surprised Garlan, who managed to deflect the bastard sword's blow with his oaken shield. In the moment the blow struck, and Garlan felt the power behind it, the Tyrell knew that the Blackfish had not lost a step with his age. Garlan grinned.

Impressive.

Garlan moved to strike, but Brynden batted away his long sword and landed another solid hit on Garlan's shield, sending green and gold chunks of wood flying into the river below. Garlan backed away, ripping his shield from Blackfish's sword, but the aged knight was upon him again in instant.

He parried the man's blows and refused to yield an inch of ground. Garlan grunted with exertion as he caught and struggled to hold against the bastard sword with his one handed grip. The Blackfish set his jaw beneath his helm and pushed against Garlan's sword with the might of a younger man.

Garlan felt his sword arm losing the battle and lashed out with his shield, bashing Tully in the face. His helm went askew and the Blackfish backed off, but Garlan pressed his advantage. He twirled his sword to gain momentum and lashed out at the retreating man with powerful upward slash.

Blackfish managed to deflect the blow, but was pushed off balance and was forced to give ground. Garlan kept at it, using swift strikes to keep the Tully on edge, but was unable to score a clean hit. By the time Garlan laid off his assault, both men were breathing heavily and eyeing each other with wary respect.

In a drawn out game, the Blackfish would tire first, and they both knew it. Garlan could see the resigned determination in his opponent's stance, and braced himself for impact. The Blackfish lashed out with his bastard sword, and lodged the blade in Garlan's shield. Tully's blows had not weakened and Garlan's arm buckled under the strain.

Garlan cursed under his breath and spun, forcing the Blackfish to overextend or lose his sword. Garlan heard the scrape of quick metal steps over wood and let his sword cut though the air as he completed his rotation. The Blackfish grunted in pain as Garlan's sword sliced through a weak point in his armor, and he stumbled forward to regain his balance.

Garlan studied his opponent's stance in a flash, noting that Blackfish was now favoring his left leg. The Gallant was quick to press this new advantage and went on the attack with a flurry of quick slashes. Tully managed to meet him blow for blow, but was forced to fall back with each strike. When they broke again, they had gone passed the outer gate and into Riverrun proper. Garlan could feel the eyes studying them.

The Blackfish must have felt it as well, for he attacked Garlan with a renewed vigor. With a battle cry, Brynden Tully charged at Garlan and brought down his bastard sword with a vicious overhead swing. Garlan braced himself and swung his shield to meet the sword, sending a silent prayer to the Warrior to grant him the needed strength.

His eyes watered and he cried out in pain as he felt more than just the wood of his shield crack. Garlan's legs trembled as his shield and the Blackfish's sword remained locked overhead. Pushing the pain from his mind, Garlan forced his sword up in a swift stab to take advantage of his opening.

The Blackfish's eyes grew wide in the moment before Garlan's sword slipped beneath his helm and stabbed through his throat, and Garlan felt a fleeting pang of regret as his opponent's vibrant blue eyes dulled. The once proud knight crumpled to the earth without a sound as blood pooled beneath him, and Garlan turned away from the sight.

His battle was won, but it was a victory he took no pride in.

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**A/N: The Blackfish had come off an upset against Oberyn Martell, but I wanted to stick with Garlan the rest of the way. This story led to a rather convincing victory by more than thirty points for the Tyrell.**


	9. Garlan Tyrell vs Sandor Clegane

**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to be within a league of George R.R Martin's writing capability. I make no money from this, and it is purely for my own and others' enjoyment.**

* * *

**A Song of Ice and Fire Tournament Finals**

**Garlan Tyrell vs Sandor Clegane**

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Garlan Tyrell sat at his table with a tired sigh. A large meal was set out before him, far too much for him to eat on his own. It was a lord's meal, he knew, and he could not get used to the idea that he _was_ a lord now. It was always going to be Willas that was going to be the lord, and Garlan had been raised to be nothing more than his brother's right hand. Yet here he was, leading a small army to lay siege to his new castle. They had a long march ahead of them to reach Brightwater Keep, but Garlan did not expect the siege to last long.

He picked up his knife and prepared to dig into a particularly attractive auroch steak when a distant shouting grew closer. He cast a disappointed look to the meat, and moved to check on the disturbance.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" The gruff yell sounded above the rest of the din. When Garlan stepped out of the tent, he found a half dozen of his men marching a man towards his pavilion. The prisoner towered over the other men, and it took all six of them to keep his arms held behind his back. Garlan did not need to see the man's burned face to recognize him.

"What's going on here?" He asked, approaching the group at his full height. The Hound still had a head on him.

"Our scouts found these two camped well off the road, my lord," Ser Desmond Redwyne informed him. The Hound gave a vicious yank that sent the knight stumbling forward, but the other five raced to contain him.

"Two?" Garlan questioned, ignoring Clegane's outburst. Ser Tanton of the red apple Fossoways came forward, carrying a bound and gagged girl. She could not have been more than eleven years old. "Why is she gagged and bound?" He demanded as the knight lowered the girl to the grown. The child glared at them all and struggled against her binds.

"The little bitch bit me," the knight explained, removing his helm. The man thrust forward a hand, showing an angry red wound between his thumb and forefinger. Garlan wondered how Tanton had let a child get the better of him, but that was a question for another time.

Garlan squatted down next to the girl, meeting her eyes. "If I take off the gag, will you answer my questions?" The girl gave a hesitant nod after a moment. Garlan took the cloth from her mouth. "What's your name?"

"She's no one," Clegane's growling voice interrupted before the girl could speak. "An orphan I found on the road."

"I didn't know you preferred them young, Clegane." Tanton taunted. The Hound lunged at the man with a snarl, but the others managed to hold him back. Garlan glared at Tanton in the unspoken warning to keep his mouth shut.

"What's your name?" Garlan asked again.

"They called me Nan, my lord." The girl spoke after a moment. Garlan's eyebrows rose in surprise at the girl's proper language. "I was at Harrenhal, but left."

"What are you doing with Clegane?" The girl's eyes flashed between the Hound and Garlan before she answered.

"He found me," she explained. "I really am no one, my lord." Garlan gave the girl a gentle smile.

"You're lying." He stood and turned to face the giant of a man as the girl denied the lie. "That leaves the question over why you took her in, Clegane. Where were you going?" The man growled and refused to answer. Garlan sighed and turned away from the Hound, knowing it would be useless to try to get more information out of him.

"Ser Desmond, gather twenty or so men and prepare to _escort_ the Hound back to King's Landing. He'll be put to the sword for his cowardice at the Blackwater." Garlan started to walk away without looking back.

"If you're going to kill me, have the balls to do it yourself." The Hound snapped. Garlan stopped short and clenched his jaw.

"At best you're a coward. At worst, a traitor," Garlan countered, marching right up to the man and standing nose to chin with him. He glared into the Hound's dark eyes, finding nothing but hatred and fury in their depths. He was truly a pitiful man. "Ser Tanton, fetch my sword and shield. Someone give this coward his helm and sword." Garlan counted it convenient that he was still dressed in his plate.

"My lord, if you mean to allow him a trial by combat, allow me to act as champion," Tanton said with a boastful grin.

"My sword and shield," Garlan repeated, and the man's grin disappeared. It took a short few minutes for the knight to retrieve the weapons. The other men had released the Hound, who had donned his dog's head helm and was looking over his greatsword with a critical eye. Garlan knew the man was a remarkable fighter, but Garlan was no stranger to the sword either.

"Ser Desmond," Garlan spoke as he fastened his shield to his arm. The Redwyne stood at attention. "Bring the girl to my pavilion and see that she is fed. I will talk with her after I am done here."

"Yes, my lord." The man hastened to obey, carrying the girl through the forming crowd. Men had formed a wall around a clearing that would serve as their battlefield. The Hound stood ready at one side, and Garlan twirled his sword and took a step forward. Clegane took that as an open invitation and charged.

The greatsword sailed through the air with a remarkable speed, and the impact of the blade on his shield sent Garlan staggering back. For a brief moment, Garlan felt a spark of awe at the strength and speed with which the Hound had moved, but he crushed the feeling and regained his feet.

He sidestepped Clegane's follow up slash and lashed out with his own blade, but the Hound danced around it and cracked his greatsword against Garlan's shield again. The new lord grimaced as his arm stung under the force of the blow and he was pushed back again. He grunted with effort and managed to push the sword off his shield.

Clegane swung again, and again Garlan opted to dodge the attack rather than try and parry it. As the blade cut through the air to his left, he slammed his shield into the snout of the man's helm. The Hound's head snapped back and Garlan brought his sword down, scouring a groove in Clegane's dark armor from shoulder to hip.

Clegane spun away from the attack and brought the greatsword back down with a roar, catching Garlan's shield, splintering the wood. Garlan grunted as the oaken shield cracked under the pressure and he fell to one knee. Clegane raised his sword up to deliver what was sure to be a killing blow, but Garlan struck out and caught the Hound in a gap in the man's armor on the hip.

Clegane backpedaled away from the sword, a hand reaching down to his bleeding wound. Garlan clambered to his feet, opening and closing the fist on his shield arm to get feeling back in the trembling limb. Clegane gazed at his bloodied hand with an indifferent grunt and stepped forward. The cut did not seem to slow him down at all.

Garlan cursed under his breath as he focused on dodging the Hound's powerful attacks, only finding an opening to attack once for every five swings of Clegane's greatsword. The men around them jeered and cheered every time Garlan struck back, but the Hound took no serious damage.

Garlan's breaths became heavy as they continued to dance, and Clegane was not faring much better. Garlan knew that if he did not end it soon, he would make a mistake. Against a foe of Sandor Clegane's caliber, that would mean certain death. Just as the thought crossed his mind, he was a step too slow and the Hound caught him in the back of the leg. The steel sliced through armor, skin, and muscle like butter and Garlan fell to his knees with a cry of pain.

His men went silent as Clegane moved his sword for the killing blow, chest heaving in exhaustion. The sword dropped through air and adrenaline pumped through Garlan's system. He threw his weight behind his shield and met the falling blade. Metal sank into oak and armor and Garlan rolled his weight with the strike, sending the Hound tumbling to the ground, greatsword still locked in his grip.

Garlan rolled on top of the Hound, shield pressing against the man's neck. He raised his sword to finish off the burned man, but an armored fist flashed out of nowhere, catching Garlan across the face and sending his helm flying. Dazed, Garlan felt the Hound roll them over. His large hands squeezed at Garlan's exposed neck.

Garlan gasped for breath, getting none, and blackness crept on the edges of his vision. His eyes locked onto the Hound's and found nothing but killer intent. Desperate, he flailed his hands around, finding purchase on his sword's hilt.

He stabbed the sword through the snarling helmet and pierced the Hound between the eyes. The pressure around his neck disappeared as the Hound fell next to Garlan, lifeless. His men cheered even as Garlan coughed for breath. His eyes locked onto the Hound's corpse, knowing exactly how close he had come to death.

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**A/N: Sandor had taken Jaime in a close semifinal bout, and the fans went pretty hard for him in the finals. Sandor thrashed Garlan for the win in the votes by over thirty.**

**Overall the tournament was definitely fun, and four of my stories made it into the overall top ten for the entire thing. (Ned v Robert, Rhaegar v Tormund, Drogo v Jon, and Mance v Greatjon) Everyone who participated really enjoyed themselves, and so did the other subscribers on the subreddit. A big thank you to PrivateMajor for organizing the entire thing and giving me a chance to practice action scenes.  
**

**That said, you should all subscribe to r/asoiaf and check out the others' submissions!  
**


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